


sometimes I say "okay" instead of "fine"

by screwsfallout



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Legally Blonde Fusion, Attempted Sexual Assault, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Law School, M/M, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, Ronan Lynch Has Feelings, Ronan Lynch-centric, What Like Its Hard?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-08 05:57:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21230933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwsfallout/pseuds/screwsfallout
Summary: Legally Blonde, but if Elle Woods was a brash, broken boy named Ronan Lynch.-“You got into Harvard Law School?” Carruthers asks.“What,” Ronan says, biting violently into a banana nut muffin, “like it’s hard?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Idk dude, I was home sick watching Legally Blonde: The Musical and here we are

This story might surprise you. For one thing, it ends with Ronan being a lawyer. 

Here’s the thing. Ronan was angry most of the time, but only because the dark, creeping miasma inside his chest had nowhere else to grow. You see, without sparking off into anger, that miasma might become so heavy and layered that it would choke him to death from the inside.

Sometimes, when he felt especially claustrophobic, Ronan had to create new places for his anger to explode. Sometimes, his anger found victims: people or walls or windows that didn’t deserve it. No one expected patience from Ronan. Or clarity. Or dependability. 

Ask someone what traits a lawyer should have, and then find the antonyms. There you'd have Ronan the way other people tended to see him. 

To be fair, even _Ronan_ had not ever entertained the idea of being a lawyer. Sometimes, he thought about Gansey serving as his personal lawyer, should he ever need one (and it seemed likely he would). But the idea of Ronan in job that required a suit was as unseemly to him as it was to everyone else. 

But we're getting ahead of the game. 

It started, as many things did, with a conversation over coffee. 

* * *

“You need to get serious,” Declan says, tapping his fingers on the coffee cup rim in front of him. 

“Jesus Mary, can you give it a rest.” 

Two brothers stare each other down across a shiny red diner table, with cracking vinyl booth seats and sparkling floors. 

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Ronan chooses not to respond, largely because he doesn’t have a comeback other than “fuck you.” Of course, that’s never stopped Ronan before, but he doesn’t want to seem stale. 

“I’m not saying this for my own health,” Declan continues. “I want you to get a job. Actually, let me re-frame. You _ are _getting a job.” 

“Dealing with you is my full time job.”

“Ronan, I swear, I'm at my wits end.”

“Sounds like you need to chill the fuck out.”

“You know what would really help me relax?”

“A colonoscopy?” 

“You’ve used that before. What would really 'chill me out' is a little cooperation,” Declan says, lightly, and pulls out a stack of papers that look important: heavy stock and pin straight. 

“Oh good are those the emancipation papers I’ve been asking for.”

“You’re 24 years old.” 

“It’s never too late to leave a toxic situation.” 

Declan stares at his brother, and then takes off his glasses. There are stress lines under Declan's eyes. New ones. Ronan notices, and his knee starts bouncing in reaction. This is why he tries never to notice anything.

“This is the deed.” Declan says. “To The Barns.”

Ronan’s stomach bottoms out. 

“You’re letting me back?” Ronan asks.

“No.” Declan flips the papers and pushes them across the table. 

Ronan’s eyes twitch back and forth as he reads. His cheeks rash up with pink and his fingers curl in. 

“This is,” Ronan stops. Looks down at the papers and crunches his teeth together. He reads through them again. Declan gets to decide what to do with the Barns. None of them can go back until they’re adults, him or Matty. What the fuck is this. _ What the fuck is this? _

Ronan has a million questions. 

“Why are you doing this?” Ronan asks, eventually, because there is nothing else left in his head. 

“_I’m_ not doing anything,” Declan says. “I didn’t write the will.” 

"This doesn't make sense, this is arbitrary, what does it even mean, I have to 'be an adult.' Dec, Dec this can't be real."

"It's real."

“How long have you known?” Ronan asks. "The lawyer didn't show us this. So. You must have known?"

Declan takes his thumb and rubs the top of his nose, trying to smooth the indent where his glasses recently sat. He doesn’t respond.

“You’ve known the whole fucking time.” Ronan says. It’s not a question. 

Declan looks back steadily. He won't show it, but he is sorry. He isn't happy about ripping his brothers away from home. He doesn't want to be the oldest, the one left in charge. But there are a lot of things his brothers don't know (that he's glad they don't know). And that means that, at least for now, Declan has to play the enemy.

  
  
So, although Declan is sorry, his face shows nothing. Ronan won’t be able to tell. It’s not Ronan’s fault, no one would be able to tell. Declan has gotten very good at being steel. 

But there’s only so long Ronan can look at steel without sparking. 

“This is bullshit,” Ronan stands, still gripping his coffee mug. 

“Lower your voice, please.” 

“I’m a fucking adult. I'm of legal age, that means I'm an adult, and I can go back to The Barns.”

“You’re not an adult.” 

“What? Just because I don’t have some fancy job? I spend more time with Mom than anyone. You’re barely there, Matty’s 3,000 miles away. I wash her hair, do her laundry, coordinate with all the nurses who, by the way, all have a giant stick up their ass anytime I try to make Mom's room at hospice more like a fucking home. But I'm not an adult? Because, what?!”

“I honestly just want to help.”

“Help?” Ronan scoffs. “Help. Good one.”

“This is the situation, Ronan. Get a job. Any job. Get your own place, move out of that decaying factory-” 

Ronan interrupts him with a terrible laugh, but Declan continues. 

“If you prove to me you can take care of _yourself_, then you get to go back to The Barns.”

“This is fucked up. Even for you.” Ronan says. And he has no words, he doesn’t want to hear any more words, so he stomps out of the booth and storms out like a hurricane. The diner door gently closes on springs, even with the great force of his push. 

Ronan pants as he takes in the parking lot, his skin is tight and prickling. He goes to grab his car keys, and realizes he’s still tightly gripping the diner mug, half-filled with weak coffee. The surface reflects his eyes like a black mirror. 

There’s no doubt that Ronan has come a long way from high school, and even undergrad. He’s no longer the ragged little shit who trashes things in anger (well, at least not things that don’t _ deserve _to be broken). But the thought of going back inside feels like failure: sludgy, amorphous, powerless. Fuck it, he thinks, and tosses the old ceramic mug into the parkling lot. It flies in a quick, spinning arc and crashes into the pavement, bouncing back up as a mosaic of shards. 

From behind, there is a low, even sigh. 

“Did that make you feel better,” Declan asks, as calm as ever. 

“It did,” Ronan says, and flips him off. “I’m leaving, don’t follow me.” 

“As if I had the time.” Declan says. No one would ever know, but inside he’s proud of his brother. 5 years ago they would have left blood on the pavement.

Ronan peels out of the parking lot with impressive speed, even for him.

Declan is left holding the deed to The Barns in the parking lot where his Tesla, shiny and new, stands out among the dusty old Buicks and Jeeps. 

* * *

  
Ronan was often confused. You see, he’d been brought up in black and white. And like many people who were raised on definitives, Ronan now spent most of his time trying to navigate a map that was never still, one that promised to be static and yet constantly changed. Everything was very fluid, and Ronan would never admit it, but it made him anxious. 

He was anxious not knowing. 

Growing up wasn’t learning shades of grey. Ronan knew shades of grey. Growing up meant navigating a spectrum of color so vivid that even thinking about it could give Ronan a migraine. This is why he packed things so tightly. This is why his edges were so sharp. Ronan was angry, but it was because he was first confused and then anxious, constantly searching for stability. Ronan was always at war with his own mind, and there is no cure for curiosity. 

There was only one place where Ronan felt quiet. The Barns. The one thing that had been taken from him, even as he was sure there was nothing left to take.

And now he could get it back.

When Niall Lynch died, a lawyer came with a big briefcase and explained everything in the will. That the Lynch brothers would all get inheritance at 26. That the art collection in the attic should be donated. That Declan, and Ronan, and Matthew had to leave The Barns. Go somewhere else. Vacate. And there wasn’t any explanation for it. At least, not then.

Obviously, Declan had known about the contingencies this entire time. 

Declan had known. He’d known, and he hadn’t said anything, even when Ronan had cried about losing his home. And now, Declan had just tossed these fucking papers in his face like it was nothing. 

“Become an adult.” Ronan muttered, with a poison usually reserved only for himself. 

Ronan’s pride said no. Ronan was prideful, yes, but Ronan didn’t have any pride in himself. And so, Ronan’s logic said yes. Ronan’s heart said nothing at all, but pumped and pumped and pumped with fearhopeshame fearhopeshame fearhopeshame.

Fine. Fucking fine, he’d do it. He’d become an adult for Declan, whatever glory hell that even meant. But Ronan was doing it on his terms. He wasn’t going to sit alone in Henrietta trying to convince his brother he was responsible. 

If he was going to start adulting, then he sure as shit wasn’t going to do it alone. 

* * *

Gansey was studying for his own LSATs at the town library when Ronan tells him.

“Law school.” Gansey says, his words charged with equal parts hope and doubt. 

“That’s what I said.” 

“_ Law _ school?”

“Are you deaf?”

“But - school? You want to go back to school?” Gansey is thrilled, of course. But he’s also deeply wary of Ronan’s instincts. And it’s just so sudden! And Ronan hasn’t had time to start preparing, how was he going to even start this late?

“I have a 4.0, Dick” 

“Yes! You’re brilliant, of course. But it is in Classical Studies...” 

Ronan tilts back in his chair, far enough to make Gansey nervous. He puts both feet on the table and crosses his legs, which makes a lot of noise - as you can imagine, combat boots are not known for being dainty. The ruckus prompts glares from other surrounding tables, but Ronan just flips them off and looks back at Gansey. 

It wasn’t that Ronan _ wanted _to go to law school (in fact, he’d rather pull out his fingernails one by one), but he wouldn’t let Declan take away the Barns. Not his home, his only home - no matter how much he loves Monmouth, it couldn’t ever compare. Anyway, without Gansey, Monmouth was just an empty warehouse full of yard sale furniture. He can’t imagine a place that would feel more lonely. He didn’t want to end up stuck there.

Not alone. Not when Ronan could follow Gansey.

Gansey searches Ronan’s face and sees only the stubborn, steely glint that means Ronan has already made up his mind. He’s going to do what he wants. In this case, it’s a decision Gansey can get behind, but Ronan’s never been one for academics, and this late in the application process, it’s going to be incredibly difficult to secure admission. Gansey’s stomach churns with anxiety. He can manage this, he can get Ronan into law school, he just needs to think. He call call his Mom later this evening... 

“Alright. Okay!” Gansey recalibrates, and then it’s all planning. “Alright, Ronan let’s talk about your application-”

“Oh here we go,” Ronan pushes his chair back down and lands it heavily, both feet slamming into the wood paneled floor. 

“You will need to write a personal essay.” Gansey says, first, because he knows it’s a hard sell. Ronan hates talking about himself. So much so that he has, on occasion, actually broken into hives when Gansey pried into feelings. 

“So.” 

“So you _ will _need to talk about,” Gansey gestures at Ronan “Yourself. Personally”

“Yeah, Dick, that was implied when you said _ personal _essay. I know what it takes to get into law school, I’ve only heard you go on about it for like 10 fucking years.” Ronan puts on a posh accent. “Will they like me if I write about Welsh kings? Am I interdisciplinary enough? Woe is me I have money and I might just get in because of money and my perfectly coiffed hair...”

“You need recommendation letters, of course.” Gansey says, not ignoring Ronan, per say, but blowing past him to continue thinking, ticking off fingers as he populates solutions.

“Most importantly, you’ll need to do well on the LSATs. I’d wager 175 or above.”

“Yeah, whatever, I know, I’ll do it.” Ronan says. If anything will stand in his way, it’s not going to be a test. 

“You’ll have to take it next month or you won’t have scores back in time for the application deadline,” Gansey says, again more to himself than to Ronan, as he twists through scenarios where this whole situation could go according to plan. He puts his knuckles to his lips. Ronan was smart, one of the smartest people he’d ever met, but also completely unstructured. _Law school,_ Gansey thinks, _will be a challenge. _

“So I’ll study for it, don’t look so fucking morbid.” 

“You’ll study for it?”

“Isn’t that what I just said.”

“Yes, but you _ don’t _study.” Gansey says, plainly. 

Ronan gives him a look, the kind that usually means slamming doors. Gansey doesn’t do more than blink. 

“I won’t let Declan take the Barns away,” Ronan says, quietly. “So if I have to fucking study, I’ll fucking study, okay?”

“I know,” Gansey says with as much softness as Ronan will allow. “I know. Let’s get started, then.”

____

And they do study. A lot. More than even Gansey could enjoy. 

Ronan spends most of his time taking cigarette breaks, loudly kicking his boots into the table, and making fun of the workbook questions. Still, he shows up to the library with Gansey every night. And his practice scores kept improving. The fact that he was actually doing the practice tests at all made Gansey giddy.

“Declan texted me today,” Gansey says, chewing on the metal eraser side of his pencil. 

Ronan grunts, but doesn’t look up from the textbook in front of him. 

“He wanted to see how you were doing.” 

“Surprised I haven’t come begging for bail money lately?” 

“Not quite.” Gansey says, and Ronan rolls his eyes. “I think he’s proud of you, actually.” 

“Oh for fucks sake, that's worse,” Ronan sneers. “I bet he’s smug, that asshat, because he’s finally getting his way.”

“Ronan,” Gansey says, and he means ‘don’t be difficult, please.’ 

“What did he say then?” Ronan asks.

“He said he’s happy to see you taking things so seriously.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Ronan turns a page so roughly that it tears. “Smug shithead.” 

This is the thing Gansey can’t wrap his head around. Declan worries about Ronan all the time, but Ronan only sees it as a means of control. And Ronan hates being controlled. Declan sees Ronan drag racing and smoking, sharp with anger, and he thinks that Ronan is thoughtless, careless even. But Gansey knows, it’s Ronan’s way of taking control back, not from Declan or from anyone else, but from himself. It’s Roan’s way of putting a leash on his pain, it’s his way of staying alive. 

Declan and Ronan, they don’t see each other at all. 

“Well,” Gansey says. “_ I’m _ proud of you.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ronan says, without any heat at all. 

“Language,” Gansey replies. “We’re in a fucking library.” 

Ronan throws his head back with a bark of laughter that has everyone turning to look. Gansey’s eyes twinkle, and he’s hit with a strong rush of warm gratitude that he won’t be leaving his best friend. _Together_, Gansey thinks, _we’ll do this together._

* * *

The night before LSAT results are posted, Ronan convinces Gansey to sneak back to The Barns. 

The Barns were beautiful, and mysterious, and different than any other place Gansey had ever been to, in West Virginia, or anywhere else. The Barns were technically a series of structures off the main house, living on an enormous swath of land, 400 acres to be exact. It seemed to have it’s own ecosystem. Amidst the rolling hills and trout-spotted creek were long abandoned skeletons of the Lynch brothers’ childhood. 

There were two tree-forts Niall had built from scratch - they were close enough that you could see one from the other, but far enough that you couldn’t hear anything softer than a yell between the two. 

There were nets and fishing poles scattered around the creek, some with lines still prepped and ready to go, hooks rusting. There was a sports graveyard spread across the hills: baseball mitts, soccer balls, and a full shed for hockey gear down by the pond, just ready for ice to creep back into season. 

Gansey had spent a lot of time at The Barns. Enough time that it felt, at least a little bit, like his. 

After wrestling around the property, Ronan and Gansey found themselves tuckered out, laying shoulder to shoulder in Ronan’s old bed. They stare up at the fluorescent yellow-green star decals that Ronan’s mom Aurora had tacked to his ceiling when he was four. 

“This place always felt like magic,” Gansey whispers, as if someone could be listening from the next room over.

“Still does,” Ronan says.

“I can’t believe Declan wants to take it away. What good is it doing just to sit here? It seems a bit unreasonable, doesn’t it?” 

Ronan snorts. “Yeah, Dick. Just a bit.” 

“I wish I’d done more.”

“There was nothing for you to do.” 

Gansey sighs.

“Gans. Gans, there was nothing, okay? This isn’t your fight.”

“But I can fight with you.” Gansey says. What he really means is ‘I can fight for you, if you let me.’ 

“Don’t be an asshole.” Ronan says, and he means ‘thank you. I love you. Don’t be an asshole.’

“At any rate, you’re going to get into law school with me, and it won’t matter.”

“Damn right. They won’t know what hit ‘em.” 

“No, I suppose they won’t.”

* * *

And Ronan did. Get into Harvard, that is. And whether it was on merit or the meritocracy of his money, it didn’t matter. Here’s what did matter: he was going with Gansey to Harvard, he was going to get a law degree, and he was going to take The Barns back.

Here’s what might have mattered more, if he could have seen the future: Ronan was going to watch someone die, he was going to adopt a wild raven, he was going to fall in love, and he was going to ask for help. Not all in that order.

But first, he was going to meet a boy named Adam. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Anxiety attack   
CW: References to drugs, suicidal ideation and parental death
> 
> We diverge a bit from Legally Blonde here but don't worry, next chapter we will be back on plot ;)

So anyway Ronan was at Harvard now, whatever. 

He tried not to let the grimy sheen of prestige settle around him. It’s not that he had an image to uphold, it’s just that he actively did not give one fuck about the school, the program, or his thumbtack-shit classmates. Except for Gansey, obviously. He gave one minor fuck about Gansey. 

Things did feel different, though. Stranger than before. 

Whether Ronan would admit it or not, moving into a single apartment was an adjustment. He had been used to the wonderful chaos of the Barns, and then, after, the monstrously mismatched but somehow comfortable Monmouth Manufacturing. 

For all Ronan’s bluster, for all his slamming doors, loud music, and beer bottles - he didn’t like to be alone. Not completely alone. Not the aching, echoing type of alone. 

When Gansey had asked if Ronan was alright living apart, Ronan knew he would feel bad and just rolled his eyes anyway. There was no use in saying anything. Gansey could tell, he usually could, and went on and on: _ it’s just location Ronan and it won’t change anything, promise _ . Ronan had huffed through his nostrils and pushed Gansey’s shoulder so hard he rolled off the couch. 

_ Whatever _ , Ronan had said, and then wrestled Gansey until they both were bruised and laughing. 

But now here he was, stuck in an empty apartment, with everything too new and shiny and unworn.

_ Well _ , Ronan thinks, as he kicks at the fridge and leaves a satisfying gray scuff,  _ this place could use a little character. _

* * *

Being back at school was immediately a lot more trouble than Ronan had anticipated. Socializing. He’d forgotten all about socializing. 

* * *

It was time for new student orientation, and Ronan was in sweatpants. 

“You’re coming,” Gansey says decisively. 

“You can clearly see that I’m not.” 

“Lynch.” 

“Dick.” 

“Get up,” Gansey says over his shoulder, walking into Ronan’s bedroom. 

Ronan doesn’t answer, he’s more focused on making sure Spyro gets through each flight ring perfectly. That is, until a white dress shirt hits him in the face and he drops the PS2 controller. A sad noise plays from the television as Spyro drowns. 

“Great, Dick, you just took an innocent life, I hope you’re proud of yourself.” 

Black slacks hit his back in response. Ronan turns around and grabs them, ham-fisted and sneering. “Are you dressing me for a choir concert?” 

“How many pairs of ripped jeans do you have?” Gansey calls back. 

Ronan stands and stomps back to his bedroom. Gansey is standing there holding the only sweater that Ronan owns, which has somehow been dug out of the back of the closet. A Christmas gift from Matty two years ago, black cashmere. Ronan always felt too guilty to donate it to Goodwill (which is what he  _ usually  _ does whenever anyone else, ahem Declan, attempts to make him dress like an upstanding member of society). 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” Gansey says, throwing the sweater at him. It lands on Ronan’s shoulder and rests innocently, like it was intended to be there all along. 

“This is another Glendower moment, isn’t it.” 

“Hmm?” Gansey hums. 

“You’re not going to leave until you get your way.” Ronan clarifies. 

“Oh yes, that. You’re correct, I’m not leaving unless it’s with you, dressed to be seen in public.”

And that’s the ringer. Gansey won’t.

He would sit in this apartment and play video games with Ronan. He might pout a little bit, but he would stay, and order pizza, and spend the night on a ratty sofa with his best friend instead of doing what Gansey should be doing: hobnobbing with other people who wanted to get law degrees and change the world. 

Ronan knows this, and so he changes into his black cashmere sweater (and ripped jeans, Dick, don’t try me right now) and follows Gansey down the hill to a law orientation happy hour he knows will make his stomach twist into sailor’s knots.

“I hope you’re happy,” He mutters as they walk in. 

Gansey smiles and its sunshine. 

* * *

Maggot is here, Ronan notes, walking into the wood-panelled, glass-clinking nightmare that is orientation. Other than Sargent, Ronan just sees a swarming mix of black/grey/brown bodies that he can’t bother to parse out. It reminds him of boarding school. Everyone is standing with straight backs and high heads. They’re confident (or faking confident, which is worse). There are no wrinkles on clothes. There are no scuffs on shoes. 

And then there’s Ronan. 

Shaved head and a vivid black tattoo snaking up his neck beneath his sweater. Dangerous eyes. Sharp scowl. Doc Martens that clomp. 

If Gansey hadn’t been there, Ronan might have been completely unapproachable. As it was, Gansey was using all his boyish charisma to get people over to say hello. 

Then again, it’s always been that way. Gansey pulling Ronan along. Gansey forcing him to make better decisions. Gansey, always there, there, there. If it weren’t for Gansey, a lot of things would be different.

Gansey introduces Ronan with an enthusiasm that is, frankly, aggressive. Ronan responds with grunts. It works for them. 

Right now, they are stuck mingling with Sargent, a guy in a bland navy suit and someone who amounts to the equivalent of a human dildo, with a condescending smirk that really outta be punched off his face. 

Everyone is introducing themselves. Before Ronan can even open his mouth to say “pass,” someone interrupts him. 

“You got into Harvard Law School?” The human dildo asks. Or, “Carruthers” per his pretentious introduction. Whatever. 

“What,” Ronan says, biting into a banana nut muffin he’d snagged off one of the tables to try and avoid the beer, “like it’s hard?”

Navy suit barely contains a laugh behind his drink. Blue does laugh, boisterously. Dildo does  not  laugh, and Gansey stares at Ronan with an expression that says, please try. 

Then again, they both know that this is Ronan trying. He showed up, didn’t he? He hasn’t cursed anyone out. He’s not drinking. He’s being  _ cordial _ . 

Ronan bites into the muffin again and in his chomp there is a grove of nuts. His teeth scream and he likes it. 

* * *

A few days after orientation, Ronan gets kicked out of his first ever class at Harvard Law School. Apparently, you had to do the reading  _ before  _ the first day of discussion, which sounds like a lot of work for a syllabus day. Also, and maybe more importantly, his professor did not seem to appreciate the use of the word “dickstick.” 

So, guess Harvard Law is here to stomp out the most creative brains of this generation. That checks out. 

Ronan stomps across the quad, stiff brown leaves crunching encouragingly under his boots. He hates the decorum of it all. The roundabout talk, the passive aggressive arguments. Why can’t people just say what they mean instead of shitting around with phrases like ‘if it pleases the court.’ 

He was in law school not a nursery, and anyway, no one ever got hurt from hearing the word fuck. Jesus Mary, it was like you had to be an insufferable prude to be let into this program. He could say more at Aglionby without getting booted from class.

  
Ronan was so busy rolling his eyes, he missed a step. Ronan was about to eat pavement. 

He went from fuming to falling in a second. He reached out for purchase and grabbed onto the ugliest brown sweater he’s seen in his entire goddamn life, but it did keep him from pitching face first into the sidewalk. 

“That is the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen.” Ronan says instead of sorry. 

“You’re  _ welcome _ ,” Brown Sweater says. Ronan looks up and wishes he had fallen onto the pavement. Instead he’s half in the arms of a very beautiful boy. Sharp cheekbones. Pale skin. Long fingers. 

It’s another type of falling, in retrospect. Ronan Lynch  _ would _ be the type to fall in love at first sight. 

“You can let go now,” Brown Sweater says, with a single eyebrow raised. Ronan is still clutching onto him. Ronan wouldn’t mind staying close to this stranger forever, but that happens to be very off brand, so he straightens up and puts on his most luxurious glower. 

“You look like a peach.” The stranger continues. 

“Oh, I am,” Ronan says flatly. 

“Are you going to apologize?”

“For?”

“Running into me, like a bull in a china shop.”

“That? No.”

“No.”

“No.”

“Okay then,” the stranger says, smoothing down his offensively shit-stain brown sweater with care. “Try not to run into any other unsuspecting people.”

Ronan watches him walk away and thinks:  _ fuck _ .

* * *

Ronan officially meets Brown Sweater stranger at his Tort’s study group a few days later. Apparently he’s the damned TA. So. 

Gansey tries to introduce them, since apparently he’s already been to office hours. Of course. “Lynch this is -”

“We’ve met,” Ronan cuts Gansey off with a quick hand wave. 

“Well I was planning to be polite, but since you brought it up.” The hot stranger takes a long sip of water and Ronan can’t look away from his throat. “We met because he body checked me in the quad last week. 

A hilarious, wide-eyed expression takes over Gansey’s face.

“It was when Calla kicked me out.” Ronan clarifies, clicking and unclicking his pen. 

“Will I ever escape apologizing for Ronan’s actions?” Gansey asks the ceiling, at least half serious. “Adam, I’m very sorry. He hasn’t been house trained yet.” 

“It’s fine. I’m glad you apologized, though, because Ronan refused to,” Adam says, straight faced. The word Ronan rolls so easily off his tongue. Ronan. Ronan. It sounds like something mythical in his mouth.

“You fucknugget.” Ronan says, half amused, half something else. Something he hasn’t figured out yet.

“Ronan!” Gansey chides immediately, and it’s clear he means  _ I’m disappointed in you _ .

“Yeah whatever,” Ronan says back, and he means  _ okay, sorry jackass. _

“Adam Parrish.” Adam says, sticking out his hand. Ronan looks at it suspiciously, and then shakes. He doesn’t speak. Parrish and Gansey stare at him and he sighs heavily.

“Lynch,” Ronan says. 

“Nice to meet you,” Parrish says. “Officially. Try not to run me over next time.”

* * *

The study group becomes a weekly touchpoint, one that Ronan cherishes, even though he would never admit it. It’s just a few weeks into the semester but it feels like it’s been months. Still, sometimes Ronan feels once-removed, like he doesn’t belong. 

It’s another Sunday, another study group. Gansey and Parrish get caught up in an amusing back and forth about breach of duty and causation. Ronan stares at them. Gansey’s eyes are sparkling and he is tucked, cross legged on the library chair.  _ He’s actually comfortable with Parrish _ , Ronan thinks. 

And then it’s like Ronan isn’t even there at all. There’s a body present but his mind is floating up and out. In a room full of people, Ronan feels completely alone. Even with Gansey, his person, his  _ only  _ person sitting next to him, animated and warm and laughing, Ronan feels far away.

_ No, Lynch _ , he thinks.  _ Fucking stop it. It’s fine. It’s fucking fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.  _

“Ronan?” Gansey asks. “Everything alright?”

“No,” He responds with a large sigh to hide is panic. “I just realized we have three more years of this.”

“Buckle up,” Parrish responds, pen hanging out of his mouth. “If you hate it now, you’re done.”

“Goody,” Ronan says and draws a big dick on the side of his textbook with sharpie. 

“Ronan,” Gansey sighs. 

“Not bad,” Parrish says. 

_ It’s fine,  _ Ronan thinks. 

* * *

Time passes. 

Things become routine. 

Classes, study groups, events, sleep (sometimes). Rinse and repeat. 

It’s enough to drive a person crazy. And it is. Driving Ronan crazy, that is. 

Gansey is spending more time with Blue, and Ronan is spending more time at the local town dive bar, hitting back cheap whiskey shots and playing Candy Crush. 

It was only a matter of time before he did something stupid. 

* * *

Ronan leaves Penny Bar and goes back to his empty room in his emptier apartment. 

He flips his phone open (yes he has a flip phone, what of it) and stares at Gansey’s text from earlier: 

**Dick Gans:** I’m desperately sorry, but I’ve got to cancel dinner. Blue’s Mom is coming over tomorrow, very suddenly. If I don’t clean, I may die before Blue has time to kill me. 

Ronan closes his phone, breathes in, and throws it at the door. It bounces off the wood and skids satisfyingly across the floor and under the bed. Ronan hopes it’s cracked. Or better yet, he hopes the whole damn thing stops working so it can serve as a decorative paperweight for all of Ronan’s useless fucking case studies that he has to finish before class that week. 

It’s time for bed. He’s drunk. Headphones in. Sleep mask on. 

Blaring drums and guttural screams. Volume up up up. Darkness so deep it creates colors behind his eyes. 

Ronan has never been good at being alone. 

Alone means thinking. And when he’s thinking, he’s feeling. And when he’s feeling - there is only the prickling truth that Ronan is bad. He’s rotten, and it rings inside of him like a dirge. It’s his fault his Dad was murdered. It’s his fault his Mom will never wake up. It’s his fault that Declan has lost himself in the responsibility of trying to put their family back together. It’s his fault Matty was sent away. It’s his fault that Gansey has lost out on friends and opportunities to sit awake with him and throw eggs in the street on bad nights. 

_ Guilty _ , Ronan’s brain whispers.  _ Useless. You are you are you are. _

Ronan turns the volume up on his iPod as far as it can go (yes, a fucking iPod okay). The bass rumbles and the guitar shrieks but the whispers in his head are small and soft enough to slip through. 

_ You should go away. Everyone will be okay if you just -- _

Ronan rips off his headphones and hears the wet gasp of his own breathing. 

No. No no no. This can’t happen, this won’t happen. Where’s his phone? 

His phone, his phone. Ronan rolls onto the floor, reaching haphazardly under the bed. He reaches and reaches and finally finds it, cold, cheap plastic in his palm. 

It is cracked, but not completely broken. He dials a number by heart. 

It rings. 

“You’ve reached Richard Campbell Gansey III. I’m unfortunately away from the phone right now, but please leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

“Fuck.” 

Ronan calls again. And again. And, “Gansey, pick up your phone, pick up your phone, pick up your - fuck!” 

Ronan throws the phone again, and this time it goes dark after hitting the wall. 

He needs to get out of there. 

He stomps outside and takes in air. 

“Well,” a voice calls from the porch next door. “Look who came out to play.” 

“Kavinsky.” Ronan says. 

“Lynch.” 

“What are you doing here.” 

The last thing Ronan needed then was a vice.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing,” Kavinsky says, waving a small pouch of bright white at Ronan. “Law kids need their fix too.” He takes a long look at Ronan, up and down. Notices the shaking. Notices the pallor. Then he grins widely. “I’m delighted you’ll be joining me.” 

“I’m not,” Ronan says, but he could crumble with the sick, hot rush of wanting it. “Delighted. Or joining you.”

“Sure thing, sweetcheeks.”

Kavinsky slinks into the apartment next door and Ronan waits outside. 

He first met Kavinsky at Penny Bar. K was a drug dealer, after all, and there were so many people at the bar looking to escape. 

Ronan didn’t fuck with that stuff (not anymore, not since...well...), but K was hot, and sharp, and drove a car that begged to be ridden in. 

“Wanna get out of here?” Kavinsky asks, walking back out.

Ronan tilts his head. It’s a dangerous angle and Kavinsky loves to see it reflected back at him. 

“Yeah alright,” Ronan says, and he surprises himself more than he surprises Kavinsky. “You wanna go? Let’s go.” 

For the first time, Ronan doesn’t have the strength to say no, to go back to his drink or his pool cue or his video game controller or his bed. Tonight he needs more. So he says yes. 

And they go. 

* * *

And that’s how Ronan falls in with Kavinsky. It’s no big story. It’s a series of lonely nights and loud thoughts and the crushing knowledge that this is it, this is us alive, this is what we have. 

Ronan doesn’t ever take the drugs, but they do fuck. 

And the nights Ronan is not with Gansey or Sargent, or at one of the million study groups they share (or with Parrish, and he wishes he was with Parish), Ronan has a choice. Be alone with himself or be alone with someone else. And for Ronan, that was never really a choice at all. 

* * *

Richard Campbell Gansey III spends a lot of time worrying.

He worries about the environment, and stray cats, and the gold standard. He worries about processed food. He worries about pandemics, because we really are overdue for one, and not at all prepared. He worries about things he can see, like Blue when she hasn’t slept, and things he can’t see like microwave radiation. He worries about not being good enough. Dying. Bees.

But, maybe most of all, Gansey worries about Ronan. 

Ronan, with his armor of black ink and studded leather. Ronan, with his sneers and snarls and barbed sentences. Ronan, who leaves a trail of burning rubber and crushed gravel in his wake.

If you didn’t know him, this would be the Ronan Lynch you saw. And it was him, a part of him, the part he could show the world (the part he could control). Ronan let people see the spiked fence, but few could get past the sharp steel to see the marvelous forest growing inside of him. 

Ronan was raw; a live wire that burned from the inside. 

Ronan felt more than anyone Gansey knew. 

So, when Gansey uncurled his hands from Blue’s hair to see 16 texts from Ronan (most that were just jumbled letters) his whole chest caves in. 

* * *

Tonight, Ronan had just wanted to forget. So he drank. And he went to K's. And they fucked. And they drank more. And fucked more. 

Now he wants Gansey. He wants to be less nauseous. He wants to be less alone. He wants his brothers, he wants the Barns, he wants dry socks, he wants to be inside, he wants. 

He left his phone in Kavinsky’s car. It’s raining. 

Ronan sits down on the wet sidewalk. He doesn’t wanna be here anymore. He doesn’t want to be anywhere anymore. 

There’s a noise. 

Mary Joseph, he’s drunk. Drunk drunk drunk. 

Things spin lazily, like when you sit on a merry go round. 

There’s that noise again. Something small and black hops in front of him. 

It’s a bird. 

It’s a bird? 

Ronan blinks. It’s a bird. 

_ Kerah _ , it says. _ Szzrk. Kerah. _

“You’re lost,” Ronan slurs. He reaches out and pats the bird. It doesn’t move but it does cock his head. “I got you.” 

* * *

Ronan stumbles into his apartment, jamming his shoulder against the doorframe. He lets out a few very colorful, very slurred curses. 

Gansey is waiting inside. He breathes deep - he doesn’t think he’s ever been hit with such relief from hearing Ronan spew profanity. _Ronan was okay_, Gansey told himself. _He was okay, he was okay, he was okay._ These thoughts are followed, almost immediately, by a stinging combination of disappointment and resentment. Being friends with Ronan was sometimes a special form of masochism. 

“You’re drunk,” Gansey says politely, spine straight. 

“Dick. Why’re you in my apartment.”

“You called me,” Gansey says. “And then you texted me gibberish. I was worried.”

“I called you,” Ronan repeats, his consonants soft. “And you didn’t answer” 

“That’s not fair.”

“I know, man.” Ronan says, and sits abruptly on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him. His jacket chirps. 

“What is that - Ronan!” Gansey jumps. A black, damp, strange thing hops out of Ronan’s coat and waddles around. “Is that a bird?”

“Think so.” 

“You brought a bird home with you.” 

Ronan shrugs. His head is tilted back against the wall. His eyes are closed. 

Gansey looks at the bird. Looks at Ronan. Looks back at the bird. He sighs and slides down to sit next to Ronan on the floor. “What happened?”

“Kavinsky” Ronan says, with a laugh that makes Gansey flinch. 

“Before Kavinsky.” 

“I’m fucked up,” Ronan answers, head lolling back and forth against the wall. “I’m,” he laughs again, “I’m so fucked.” 

Gansey knocks their knees together. 

“Gansey,” Ronan says. And then softer, “Gans.” 

“Let’s go to bed.” 

“I’m tired. I’m tired, man.” 

“I know,” Gansey says, standing and offering a hand to Ronan. Ronan stares at it. 

Ronan takes it. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> law school, pining, the Morbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll. I was re-reading this fic today to add a chapter (it's, uh, been a while) and I realized I've been having Gansey call Blue BLUE instead of Jane. I'm so sorry. I'll curse myself to wet socks for a day in penance

Ronan never tried in school. Well, Ronan never used to try in school. There was nothing for him there. It was a farce. It contained him, it made him feel trapped. (Ronan could almost hear Declan’s voice echo in his head:  _ don’t be so pretentious _ ). 

In this case, Declan would have been right. He was a pretentious little shit. Still is most of the time. 

Mary Joseph, he was pathetic. 

* * *

  
  


“Get your feet off the table.” Calla snaps. 

It’s the first thing she’s said in class that day. Before that, she had just stared at the students, making eye contact with each person in her classroom until they eventually looked away. Though, Lynch never met her eyes in the first place, the little shit. 

Ronan raises his eyebrows and does not move his feet off the table.

“I’m waiting.” She says, and the people around Lynch sit up a little straighter. 

Ronan’s first instinct is to flip the professor off. It’s also his second, third, and fourth instinct but none of that matters, he just sighs audibly like a petulant toddler and shoves his feet back on the ground. 

“Happy?” He asks, plastering on a familiar feral smile. The one he uses to feel in control, to push people, to hide with.

“Thrilled.” Calla says. She clicks the remote in hand and a large black bolded quote appears on the screen behind her.

It reads: “The law is reason, free from passion.” 

Lynch snorts, and it does take some self control for Calla to keep a straight face in response. This fucking kid.

“Who said this?” She asks the class. She wants to make people uncomfortable - the class had been getting too complacent, too confident in their actions lately. That’s an easy way to become sloppy your first year at law school, and she is a better educator than that. It doesn’t hurt that she also enjoys watching them squirm. 

“You. Carruthers. Who said this?” 

She picks him for a reason. The plain-looking, brown haired, polite and presumptuous student in the third row. 

“Aristotle,” he says, confidently. 

“Hm.” Calla tilts her head and makes direct eye contact. “Are you sure?”

“Ye-es,” he replies, but he makes the word two syllables, as doubt is seeded. 

“Would you stake your own life on that?”

“Well, I -” 

“Would you stake hers?” Calla asks, motioning at a girl in the second row. 

That makes Carruthers pause. 

Everyone in the class is gawking at him, and it’s clear he feels the weight of their perception as his shoulders bunch up toward his ears. Carruthers opens his mouth and closes it again. Looks up as if he can find the answer written on the ceiling. 

“I..I don’t know,” he says finally. “I think so.”

“You think so?” Calla repeats. Carruthers nods and purses his lips.

“**I think** is not the same as **I know**, kid. Every detail matters, and the way you present those details matters more. You are going to be pushed, questioned, and sometimes lambasted. So, I recommend knowing before speaking.” Calla says. 

“Yes ma’am,” Carruthers says. 

“In law there is very little room for interpretation,” Calla continues, this time directed at the whole class. “Facts must be presented and interrogated. Every witness is sworn in. Jury’s are meant to be impartial.” 

“Except that they’re not.” 

Calla’s surprised to hear Lynch speak up without being called on. It's the first time he's done so with anything beyond a curse word. 

“Go on.” She prompts. 

“_No one’s_ impartial, isn't that why we make people sit through a day of shitty interviews before they can serve on a Jury?”

“And what about the judge?” She counters. 

“Still a person. Still has their own dumbfuck opinions.” 

“So you think Aristotle was wrong?” 

“I don’t think there’s a right answer at all.”

“Why?”

“A trial free from passion is, well, it's just getting a bunch of food ingredients to make dinner without a recipe. People don’t commit crimes with logic and reason, they’re driven by things that matter to them, that they’re scared of, or fucking angry about, or, or a million other stupid emotional reasons.” Lynch leans forward with intention. 

“So a person’s intention can outweigh their actions?” 

“Obviously the fuck not.” He snaps his teeth together. “But we can’t persecute people on reason alone when every single asshole out there is making decisions. It’s not computers. We don’t live within only reason, why would judging on only reason make any sense?”

Gansey, or ‘the boat shoe bastard dating her niece' as Calla has taken to calling him, is grinning ear to ear in a way that truly makes Calla nervous he might break out into legitimate tears. 

“That’s very insightful, Ronan.” Gansey says. “I’ve not thought about it that way.” 

Lynch visibly flinches, slumping back in his seat and clenching his jaw. Right. People are watching.

“Whatever,” Lynch mutters and kicks Gansey’s leg with intention:  _ don’t be condescending, dipshit _ . 

Gansey tones down his smile but his eyes stay bright.  _ I don’t care _ , his look says, _ I’m proud of you _ .

“That’s the type of thinking I want to see,” Calla says, getting eyes back on her. “Challenge each other. Challenge _me_. Who is making the rules? Why do they get to be the ones who make them? Nothing happens in a bubble.”

Calla sighs and clicks on to the next slide. “But now shut up, we’re pivoting to Civ Pro." After a beat. " And you’re right, Carruthers. It was Aristotle.”

* * *

Another day, another tooth-pulling party (_another reason to text K_, he thinks, with shame so strong it almost gags him).

“Lynch. You’re looking...prickly, as usual.” 

Ronan hadn’t noticed Parrish walk up so the voice over his shoulder comes as a surprise. He jumps a bit and tries to cover his reaction with a growl but Parrish just laughs. 

“C’mon now, play nice.” Adam drawls, large glass of wine in hand. 

_Fuck he’s beautiful_, Ronan thinks. The prick is wearing his brown sweater again, but he’s still fucking beautiful.

“Parrish.” Ronan counters. “Didn’t notice you there, you blend right into the décor.” He gestures to the dull, paneled wood and beige walls. 

  
  
“Cute.” Adam says, and steps closer. “What are you doing here?”

“I go here, dipshit.” Ronan says.

“What are you doing _here_.” Parrish gestures: to the party, to the polite but caged conversations, to the tiny quiches on sterling platters. It's a fair enough question, considering last mixer Ronan had declared he would be fucking off all other law-related gatherings. And, of course, he stomped out immediately after. Adam remembers, specifically, because Lynch had been wearing a short sleeve shirt and when he'd turned Adam got to see a little more of the dark, spiraling tattoo that covers Lynch's back.

“Gansey dragged me,” Ronan shrugs, without explanation. 

“Ah,” Adam says. “Hasn’t he gotten sick of the dog and pony show yet?” 

“He’s been sick of it since he was five. Kid’s got anxiety, he can’t not come to this shit. He’s gotta be liked. He won perfect attendance every year in high school.”

“Your fancy private school had an attendance award?” 

“No,” Ronan rolls the ‘o’ around in his mouth. “I had to make it for him, it was a fucking disaster.”

Adam doesn’t smile but his eyes change, they seem, hmm - Ronan doesn’t quite know how to explain it. Brighter maybe. 

“Anyway, he’s here rubbing elbows with who the fuck cares now.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Adam says. 

“This whole place is exhausting.” 

“Yeah, tell me about it, I work 2 jobs on top of Law School, I haven’t slept since 2009.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Ronan asks. 

“No.” Adam grins. “But maybe a little guilty for having everything handed to you on a silver platter.”

Ronan’s bark of a laugh comes as a surprise to both of them (and several people in the surrounding area, if the turned heads are any indication). 

“You’re such a little shit.” Ronan says.

“That’s rich, coming from you.” 

“Don’t you have important people to shmooze?”

Adam shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, thought I’d take a break from brown-nosing and talk to someone more pathetic. Really raises my confidence levels.” 

“Happy to help,” Ronan says, taking a long swig of his mountain whatever the fuck IPA. Adam is still holding wine, seemingly naturally, except he hasn’t taken a sip yet and the glass is completely unsmudged. 

“Do you not drink?” Ronan asks.

“Excuse me?”

Ronan nods to the glass Adam is holding. “You’ve got a full glass, you clearly haven’t touched it. Ya do that a lot. But you make a point to always be swirling something.” 

Adam raises his eyebrows and Ronan’s stomach swoops in response. It’s annoying. Ronan Lynch doesn’t get swoops or swoon feelings.  _ Except you do _ , he thinks,  _ around Adam Parrish _ .

“Are you watching me?” Adam asks.

_Yes_, Ronan thinks, _because you’re very distracting_. 

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Adam looks at him, really looks, and Ronan looks back. 

"My Dad was an asshole drunk. It didn't seem worth it to try myself." Adam didn't _expect_ to talk about his father but hey, there it was. "If I have something in my hand, people don’t bother me. Thanks for always being the exception, though.” 

“My pleasure,” Ronan says. “Your Dad sounds like a piece of shit.” 

“Yeah,” Adam responds, and actively focuses on maintaining eye contact, he has to, otherwise he knows his eyes will stray down to Ronan’s lips. “He was.”

“Guess doing a round of shots is out of the question.” Ronan says. His gaze continues to be piercing and incredibly strong. Adam has never been looked at this way before - like he was the only thing worth paying attention to. “That’s usually how I deal with these things.” 

“Very classy.” 

“Want to smoke?” Ronan asks. “I’m gunna step outside.” 

“Those will kill you, yanno.” 

“Here's to hoping,” Ronan replies, pulling out a pack of American Spirits. 

“No, I’m alright, go ahead.” Adam says.

Ronan shrugs. “See you later Parrish. Have fun with your brown nosing.”

Adam nods and watches Lynch leave. The room feels a little less alive without Lynch in it. The voices around him are saccharinely scripted in comparison. It’s like being back in Grade School when you’d end recess and drag your feet on the walk to class, dreading integers and vocabulary words and neatly typed worksheets with directions at the top. 

The whole rest of the night Adam is physically present, he’s sure he’s speaking, he makes his rounds, but god knows what he talks about. All he can picture are Lynch’s lips curled on a beer bottle. His sharp crooked smile. Ronan’s surprisingly warm eyes. Ronan Ronan Ronan. 

A few blocks away, with a cigarette smoldering at the filter, Ronan Lynch decides to go home instead of meeting K at Penny Bar. He spends his night fucking around with Chainsaw instead - and yes, he’s keeping the bird okay. He tried to let it go but the damn thing kept flying back and waiting outside his door like some sort of cursed demon familiar. 

And it's good to have someone else at home. 

Even if Chainsaw can’t speak, she yells and chirps and bites and flaps - she makes noise so that the creeping silence can’t consume him. 

* * *

“Absolutely not,” Gansey says, perching his fingers together. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind? C’mon Dick, you know I’m right.”

“If you actually, truly think that Jason Todd is the best Robin I - I’m going to have to reevaluate our friendship.”

“Just because you share a shitty name -”

“No, no, don’t minimize him Ronan! Dick Grayson is the original, he objectively has the best combat skills due to the acrobatics background -”

“Oh please.”

“And! And! He is the ideal foil for Bruce Wayne and Batman alike. They’re both orphans desperately seeking home in someone else, but where Bruce is aloof, Dick Grayson is earnest, where Batman is morose, Robin is cheerful and joking - I don’t know how to explain this to you again, I really don’t -” 

Ronan is, thankfully, saved by the door slam. 

Calla walks in to class 5 minutes late, black leather head to toe, and closes the door just as hard as she’d opened it. All conversation stops. 

“That’s what I like to see,” she says, putting her bag down. 

_Oh here we go_, Ronan thinks.  And go they did, the click clack of frantic keyboard notes droning in the background like a plane engine, for an hour - a long, long...long hour - until lecture turned toward discussion. 

“ Would you rather have a client who committed a crime malum in se or malum prohibitum?” Calla asks, with a hand on her hip. She surveys the room. “Lynch?”

“Neither,” Ronan says.

“Why?” 

Calla has started to ask this question with Lynch a lot. Partly because he was prone to giving one word answers, but mostly because the best way to get his full attention was to challenge him. 

Calla would never admit it, but she saw a lot of herself in Ronan. She remembers what it’s like to shield soft insides with a poisonous social performance. She remembers how difficult it is not to care, how much effort it actually takes, how very lonely it is. 

The little bastard was becoming one of her favorite students, which made it all the more fun to put him on the spot. 

“Because I’d prefer someone who, I dunno, didn’t  _ actually  _ commit a crime?” Ronan says.

“Oh, so someone innocent?” Calla asks. “That’s adorable. Didn’t expect that from you.”

In all honesty, she had, but she was having a grand time getting a rise out of him. 

Without pause, Carruthers snaps his hand up, navy plaid blazer, signet ring, and all. 

“Yes, Carruthers.” 

If Lynch was one of her favorite students, Carruthers fell solidly on the opposite side of the spectrum.

“I would choose Malum prohibitum, because it’s an unlawful act only by virtue of statute, as opposed to conduct that is evil in and of itself.” There it was. A textbook perfect answer. 

Lynch snorted loud enough that even Carruthers, who often ignored the usual interruptions, had to react. 

“Is there a problem, Ronan? Do you disagree?” 

“It’s just that every weasel-wormy word out of your mouth sounds like it's straight from a bad movie script.”

“I won’t apologize for being a good student.” 

“How about for being a boring dickwad?”  
  


  
“Hey!” Carruthers stands, his chair wobbling from the force of it. 

“Alright, alright - calm the fuck down." Calla says. "Lynch, don’t make me kick you out of the classroom again. Carruthers, you could learn to put some critical thinking forward instead of reciting the textbook back to me.”

Carruthers sits down and becomes smaller just as Ronan sits straight, taking up more space.

Ronan clears his throat. 

“Calla, I changed my mind. I’d choose Malum in se, actually, because I’m not scared of a fucking challenge”

* * *

It’s taco night and the Maggot is at over again but Ronan isn’t too bothered anymore. She lends something to the ambiance (that something is brutally making fun of Dick. It's probably the only thing they can agree on). 

Ronan's had a long day. Or, well, Ronan's had a hard day. A bad brain day. A day where his fingers itch for fire and he desperately tries not to shove a full fifth down his throat. Anyway, he made it to the end, but moving from the kitchen to the living room is exhausting. Ronan belly flops onto the couch, on top of Gansey actually, with a distinct lack of grace. 

Gansey takes the direct hit with a muffled “ooof.” 

“Gentle as always,” Dick says, but let’s Ronan use his lap as a pillow anyway. 

Ronan doesn't know how to ask for affection. He never has. It’s like taming a feral cat, you have to let him come to you. It took a long time for Ronan to relax around Gansey. It took a lot of restraint, and a lot of silent boundary setting. Ronan had been jumpy to start but after finding his father's body - well, Ronan had built up a lot more walls after that. He hurt himself, and he hurt others, and all the while he kept creating more and more walls, forcing himself to be strong, like a muscle that would rip but grow back stronger. 

Gansey had tried very hard to be what Ronan needed but it's difficult to make a dent in a stone stronghold with only one set of hands. But Gansey was persistent. He'd kept trying. And trying. 

Gansey had cried the first time Ronan hugged him, which resulted in Ronan quickly tackling him to the ground, limbs akimbo. They scuffled until his nose bled in a White Castle parking lot. 

Around Gansey, Ronan feels safe. 

Around Gansey, the empty, aching sinkhole in Ronan's chest recedes. Around Gansey, Ronan remembers how to exist, he remembers the words to old Irish hymns, he can laugh about the time Matty broke his arm falling out the damned tree house, he can cook and read stupid books and think in Latin. 

It’s moments like this, moments where Ronan lays on top of Gansey and sends pictures of dicks with STD’s to Declan, when Gansey feels like he's succeeded. Like he's help make Ronan's day okay, even a little bit. 

“You tamed the beast,” Blue comments off-handedly, head still bent over her paperback book. It’s ratty with pages slipping out, and no matter how hard Ronan squints, he can’t read the cover to make heads or tails of what it might be. It’s definitely not a law book. 

Fucking Mary and Joseph, when did Ronan start caring what the maggot did. 

“Arrr,” he growls. 

“He’s very temperamental,” Gansey says. “But he makes a great space heater.”

_I missed this_, Ronan thinks. Feelings bubble around his stomach (they’re warm, good feelings but feelings all the same, and he’s never known what to do with them). He snaps his teeth at Gansey’s hand instead of saying something sentimental. 

“Down boy,” Gansey says. 

_I really missed this_, Ronan thinks. 

“Leave me alone,” Ronan says, cheek still resting against Gansey’s thigh. “Or it won’t be your hand I try to bite next.” 

“Feisty,” Blue says. “But I didn’t ask for a threesome.”

“Who says _you_ would be invited,” Ronan replies snottily. Blue flips the finger and Ronan flips it right back.

“Does anyone want pizza?” Gansey asks. “I’m craving cheese.”

“You're so predictable,” Blue says. “But fine, get me pineapple on half.” 

“That’s an interesting choice Jane.”

“Dick thinks it’s disgusting.” Ronan translates.  
  


  
“I don’t think it’s _disgusting _per say…”

“Oh my god, you're so dramatic, you don't need to eat any.” Blue puts her book down open-faced on the floor to give Gansey her full attention.

“Jane, I love you - but pineapple is going in a separate box, I’m sorry but it must be done.” 

“Fucking rich boys." Blue says. "But whatever, add black olives to mine too then.”

"Hm," Gansey hums, and Blue throws one of her hair clips at him.

_Yeah_, Ronan thinks. _I really, really, really missed this. _

**Author's Note:**

> Not everything is plotted fully so lmk if you have requests xoxoxo


End file.
